


head of gold, heart of iron

by silver_bubbles



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Based off of twentieth-century rich people, Gen, Historical AU, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Multi, Parent Pepper Potts, Parent Tony Stark, Personally one of my favorite things, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker and Morgan Stark are adorable, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is a dad and nobody can convince me otherwise, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-01-08 00:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21226559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_bubbles/pseuds/silver_bubbles
Summary: Pepper’s right, just as she always is. Tony knows that.“Put out posters,” he says decidedly. “Have the maids write up a bunch of papers and put them out in town for people to see. Whoever wants the job gets an interview with you tomorrow morning.” Tony pokes a finger at his paper, tracing a pattern over an article about Irish immigrants. “There’ll be plenty of people interested.”Peter reads the notice a second time, then a third, mentally calculating how far away Ochre Pointe Avenue is. It has to be far away because no person who owns a mansion would want to be anywhere near the center of the city, so that poses an issue- but if he wakes up early enough he can make it with time to spare.(Peter Parker, homeless and starving after the loss of his parents, aunt, and uncle, immigrates to America only to find that he has little chance of surviving on his own.Conveniently enough, millionaire inventor Anthony Stark’s boot boy falls ill only days after his arrival.It’s an unlikely bond, but a good one nonetheless.)





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> So I kind of disappeared from the fandom for a month. And I feel really bad about it. :D 
> 
> And now I am back.
> 
> With another AU.
> 
> Because I love AU's and historical AU's are my literal favorite okay cheers let's do this thing.
> 
> Disclaimer/Background: This story is based heavily off of the early twentieth century Vanderbilt family, who lived in a New England mansion called The Breakers. I got to visit some of the mansions in Rhode Island this summer and it was really fun and inspiring, so I have some legit information on this one. Surprise!
> 
> I'm researching this story as I go, so some stuff might not be totally accurate. The majority of the historical info will be, and so will inflation rates and stuff like that, but a bit of the characterization might be off. 
> 
> I'm trying to keep it right, I promise.
> 
> This story is not directly affiliated with any of my other stories at this time.
> 
> The chapter count is negotiable. You guys tell me some stuff you want to see and I'll take it all into account! I can't promise that every idea will be written, but I'll choose a few and use them! :)
> 
> p.s. I felt it appropriate to address Michelle's heritage in this story. It's not an incredibly important point, because she's not a main character, but period-typical racisim is mentioned (no slurs or direct disrespect, just the fact that it would've been difficult for her to find work).

The fireplace in the library of Stark Mansion roars in the night, tongues of flame reaching toward the firescreen like grasping hands. Wind beats against the window- a side effect of living next to a bay in the middle of winter. Glass rattles in windowpanes. Water jumps in the fountains. In the basement quarters, the staff covers their heads with their pillows and tries to coax their minds back to sleep, knowing full well what's coming next.

And then it begins.

A baby's cries fill the house, quiet at first, then louder and louder until they're the only thing anyone can hear. She sounds like a cat with a pulled tail, wailing and screaming like there's no tomorrow. This is normal- Morgan H. Stark does not sleep like a normal child, and the household is used to it by now.

Well, parts of the household, anyway.

Anthony doesn't count himself.

He rolls over in bed, groaning tiredly and poking Pepper in the side like a needy child. She rolls over in her white nightgown, a ghost in the dark, and glares at him.

"It's your turn to take care of the baby," Tony mutters, voice cracking in the darkness. "I did it last night."

Pepper rolls her eyes. "I birthed her. You can put her back to sleep."

"_Pepper-_"

"Tony. Go put your daughter back to sleep."

Without another word, she carefully flips onto her other side, belly already showing signs of her second child, and goes back to sleep with a quiet sigh. Tony stares at her for a few minutes as Morgan's cries grow louder and louder, eyes closed as though if he ignores her long enough, she'll go back to sleep.

He knows better. Once Morgan is awake, she'll stay that way until somebody comes to take care of her.

As of late, that _somebody _has been Tony.

The nursery isn't far away from their shared room- a mere hallway away- but it feels like he's about to cross a desert. He shrugs on his dressing gown, ties it loosely at his waist, and slips out of the room with a quiet _click _of the door before trudging down the carpeted hall in the direction of Morgan's screams.

His baby girl is still in her cradle when he walks in- she hasn't gotten to her 'escape' phase yet, a fact for which he is eternally grateful. A single clenched fist waves above the edge of the silk bassinet, tiny fingers wrapped into a ball as she flails around. Tony walks over to the crib, stepping over a small stack of wooden blocks, and leans over the crib to pick Morgan up.

Her tiny face is screwed up into an angry pout. He can barely see her eyes- they're narrowed to little slits, tears leaking out of the corners- and her cheeks are the color of a tomato. She's irate, screaming, _wailing_ for no apparent reason at all.

Tony groans, wraps her up in her knitted blanket, and picks her up, whispering quiet nonsense in her ear in a desperate attempt to calm her down. Morgan screams louder- right in his left ear- and he winces, reaching one hand up to cradle her head and hold her farther away from his.

"Morgan H.," he croons, grimacing as she wails louder. "C'mon, Morgan H. Calm down, calm down, calm down."

She doesn't listen.

Then again, she's three months old. He never really _expected _her to listen.

"Mama's going to be mad, Maguna." He rocks her back and forth in his arms, humming lowly under his breath. "Mama's going to be _real _mad."

Clearly, Morgan doesn't care how angry Pepper's going to be in the morning when she has to function without a full night's sleep. She cares about whatever's going on in her little head- even though it's probably not much- and whatever that is has something to do with absolutely _destroying _Tony's sleep schedule.

He sighs, crosses the room with Morgan in his arms, and sits down in one of the ornate rocking chairs, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet in a desperate attempt to calm her down.

It's going to be a long night.

...

Peter Parker sighs heavily in his corner of the alley, bundled up in a threadbare blanket that he had dug out of a garbage pile behind a textile store in Newport the week before. Puffs of air blow from between his lips, stark white against the darkness before they dissipate in the cold air.

It's _freezing._

He doesn't have any way of finding out what the temperature is- with only a few cents in his pockets and barely anything in the bag on his back, he has nothing to spare- but if he had to guess, he would go with somewhere in the twenties or thirties. 

Peter adjusts the blanket again, pulling it up to cover his neck with shaking fingers. It does little to shield the cold and even less to warm him up.

He knows better than to think it would warm him up.

But there are no other options available. The alley has nothing to use for kindling except for a pair of wooden crates, and Peter has no way of knowing if they carry anything; he has no interest in being accused of thievery. There are no extra blankets lying around. There isn't an inn around that he can afford to stand inside of, let alone rent a room. A dollar and twenty-five cents (that was nearly five shillings, and he has only two to his name) is too much for him to afford. It physically hurts him to think of spending that kind of money on something, even if it's as important as housing.

But if his parents had been able to do it, he can do it too.

Richard Parker and Mary Fitzpatrick had emigrated from America to Ireland when Peter had been only two years old, going back to his mother's country of origin when Peter's last remaining grandparent had become deathly ill. They had died in a motorcar accident three days after his passing, leaving Peter with his father's brother and his new wife, Ben and May Parker.

Ben had died when he was ten.

May had died three months before his fifteenth birthday.

Peter had been left alone.

So, of course, he had done as any young boy would have. Peter had boarded a passenger ship, the SS Jackson using his aunt's remaining money, and had gone back to the country where he had been born. A land of opportunity, the posters proclaimed it. New jobs around every corner. A place to make your fortune and live happily ever after with a family of your own and enough money tojn take care of yourself.

Suffice it to say, the posters had lied.

Three weeks after the _Jackson _had made landfall in New England, Peter was still stuck in the same place- the back of a grimy alley with only the clothes on his back and his meager earnings to keep him alive. Sixteen years old and homeless. On the brink of starvation.

_The land of opportunity._

Peter chuckles to himself, quietly shaking his head, and burrows into the blanket like a small child as another strong wind blows through his hideout.

It's going to be a long night.

...

Tony thanks the maid quietly as she sets a fresh cup of coffee down on his desk, the hot liquid still steaming and strong. He doesn't bother to look up from his newspaper- he's too tired to make an effort after taking care of Morgan for hours the night before- but he sees her give a little curtsy out of the corner of his eye, just before she leaves the room.

He doesn't know her name.

Pepper does, of course- she makes it her business to know all of the staff, if not on a personal level, at least on a first-name one- but Tony, as head of the family and main breadwinner, doesn't have time for that sort of thing. His life revolves around selling his inventions and working to keep his family in the position of second-wealthiest family in America.

It's not particularly easy, but it's worth it. Morgan H. Stark will never know poverty the way Tony's family did. The way Pepper's mother did.

They will never sink from their niche in the hierarchy. He'll make sure of it.

Pepper sits in the chair across from him, the silky fabric of her green gown cascading over the carpet like water, Morgan cradled in her arms. The light from the ten-foot living room windows spills across her hair, igniting it with sparks of light so that it looks like a raging fabric. Their child sleeps happily.

"You're sure you couldn't have just picked her up and gone back to sleep last night?" Tony asks, peering over the top of the paper with raised brows. "The kid likes you better than me anyway." He takes a sip of his coffee, slurping slightly at the end. Pepper's lip curves into a small smile.

"It doesn't matter which one of us she _likes _better," she says demurely. "What matters is that you're her father and you should take care of her just as much as I do. I _made _her, after all."

"I seem to remember it being an equal effort on my part to _make _her."

Pepper sighs and shakes her head, tugging Morgan's soft sheet over her face. "When you carry a small human in your stomach for nearly nine months, you can argue."

There's no winning an argument with Pepper Potts. Tony nods curtly, takes another sip of his coffee, and clears his throat.

"Hows the other little one?"

She releases Morgan, carefully setting her in the arms of her waiting lady's maid- a young woman named Michelle Jones who had been unable to find another job due to her ethnicity. Michelle takes the baby with a gentle smile and leaves the room, humming quietly to herself until she disappears from view and earshot.

Pepper slumps into her chair with all the grace of a flightless bird, clasps her hands over her belly, and sighs.

"This one's a little kicker," she grumbles, rubbing the bump absentmindedly and glaring at Tony. "Two months after Morgan and you get me pregnant again."

"I didn't-"

"You absolutely did."

Pepper glares him down, unimpressed, and Tony shuts his mouth. "I did."

"Yes."

A few minutes of silence. He reads a few more lines of an article, something about immigration rates rising, and tries not to stare at his wife.

"But I think it's happy," she says softly, smiling so that her freckles stand out in the golden morning light. "Healthy, too."

"What do you think it'll be?"

The coffee is strong and bitter, but Tony downs the entire thing, watching as Pepper appraises her stomach with calculating eyes and bites her lip.

He's so glad he fell in love with this woman.

"I think it's too earlier to tell," she says. There's a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "But I would go with a little boy if I was a betting woman."

"Aren't we lucky you're not?"

Pepper shrugs and takes a sip of her own coffee, peering at the back of Tony's paper and tilting her head slightly to the side so she can read it for herself. Her lips purse tersely- the last article, he knows, is about mass poverty in England and Ireland, and that's something that hits very close to home in her mind.

"We're very lucky."

They sit in silence for a moment, Tony trying to figure out whether Pepper was talking about the joke or the article, Pepper still reading her article. A clatter of dishes snaps them out of their reverie- Harold "Happy" Hogan, the butler and head of the household, bustling in with a tray of silver while commanding a stream of serving maids, each with their own plate for the family's breakfast.

Pepper's facial expression snaps from concern to quiet happiness, eyebrows quirking up as Michelle- returned from the nursery- hands her Morgan. She takes the little girl, whispering sweet nothings in her ear as the staff places their dishes up and down the table.

Tony can't help but feel claustrophobic- or maybe it's just the opposite. Their table is made for two dozen people, with room for more if they're willing to squeeze in, and the fullest it's ever been is halfway (when Rhodey and the rest of his companions join them for dinner).

It's depressingly empty now, with only half of its seats full.

When the rest of the servants have left, leaving only Happy and the Starks behind, the depressing atmosphere returns. Happy makes his way around the table to stand next to Tony's seat- at a respectful distance, even though he's been told repeatedly that he's more like a friend- with his hands clasped in front of his chest, nervously waiting to be addressed by the 'master' of the house.

"Mister Hogan." Tony pivots in his seat, places the newspaper on the table, and rests his chin on his fist like a child. "How can I help you?"

"Master Stark," Happy says, bowing his head in deference before looking back up. He's pale, biting his lip. Clearly nervous. A bead of sweat glistens on his brow. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

All noise in the room stops. Pepper shushes Morgan, who's just started to coo and fiddle with a spoon, and looks up with as straight a spine as she can muster.

"What sort of bad news?" Tony asks, trying to calm his heart. Having a condition results in constant nervous outbreaks, each of which is extremely unpleasant and something he would prefer not to deal with again. "Harold?"

Happy bites his lip harder- so hard that a drop of blood wells to the surface. "Our boot boy, Harley Keener, recently fell ill. We were expecting it to be a short-time thing..." he trails off. "He's gotten much worse recently. They're taking him to a hospital for treatment and possible quarantine."

Deep breaths.

"Is he going to be alright?" Pepper asks sharply, biting each word as if it hurts. "The boy."

He shrugs tightly, palms up. Helpless.

"We don't know. There's a good chance that he won't make it through, but... well, there's no way of knowing right now."

"You'll tell us if he's not?"

"If I get word of it, yes." Happy looks puzzled. "But we'll have to hire a new boot boy soon or the household may fumble. Keener did the mundane things that the rest of the staff didn't have time for, and without him, we may not get everything done."

Tony sniffs, gulps the last sip of coffee down, and raises an eyebrow.

"So hire a new boot boy," he says. "There are plenty of people who need work. Go into town and ask around."

Pepper coughs loudly, glaring at Tony with hard eyes. In her lap, little Morgan imitates her.

"_What?" _

"You want him to _ask around _to find a new boot boy? Tony, this is someone who's going to be around _our daughter!" _She snaps waspishly. "You can't just take in _anyone _who has half a mind and a sob story!"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Hogan knows what he's doing, Pep. He won't hire just _anybody_."

Happy nods frantically so that the sweat on his forehead rolls down the bridge of his nose.

She closes her eyes. "I know that. But Morgan is my _daughter_. Morgan is _our all_, Tony. We have to do the right thing for _her_."

Pepper's right, just as she always is. Tony knows that. Morgan is his only child (his only _born _child, at least) and she and Pepper are the most important people in his life. He has to protect them- he knows this with every fiber of his being- and that comes with not hiring an absolute stranger without checking to make sure they're okay first.

"Put out posters," he says decidedly. "Have the maids write up a bunch of papers and put them out in town for people to see. Whoever wants the job gets an interview with you tomorrow morning." Tony pokes a finger at his paper, tracing a pattern over an article about Irish immigrants. "There'll be plenty of people interested."

He looks to Pepper, watching as she mulls over his proposal in her head before nodding and moving Morgan so she can cradle her head. "I think that sounds alright," she murmurs, "but I want to see them. Not meet them, but see them. Alright?"

Happy nods, waits to see if anybody needs anything else- they don't- and leaves with a small bow and a good-bye.

"We'll just have to see what this plan of yours brings in, hm?" Pepper says, a tight smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes." Tony brushes his finger around the rim of his mug. "We will."

...

The warmest place in Newport is the center of the village square, where the masses of Irish and English immigrants had created a place to call home in the weeks it would take them to find houses and alleys of their own. Many of the others slept there, gathered around small fires that burned throughout the days and nights, but Peter had made the decision early on to strike out on his own- with the police roaming near and a shortage of food combined with too much noise for him to work with, it was much too overwhelming.

But it was one of the only places with an available food supply, so Peter had no choice but to return.

He can hear the children shrieking with laughter three blocks away as he walks down the nearly-abandoned street, flakes of white snow falling all around him. Heavily accented voices scream for them to quiet down (he knows that he's lucky not to have acquired an Irish accent of his own, taking his father's instead; it's a clear sign of distinction and sets immigrants apart from citizens). The Americans in their fancy townhouses close their windows as the screams get louder and louder.

Happiness is, apparently, not acceptable in whitewashed streets and on waxed floors.

Peter keeps his head down as he walks, wrapped in an oversized coat with patches missing from the sleeves and back. He knows how he looks- a skeletal teenager with unruly curls, dirt on his face, and eyes the size of quarters- and they're probably right to stay away from him.

He doesn't look like the little kid he used to be anymore.

He looks more like a delinquent. That person you steer clear of in the market or see smoking a pipe or a cigar on the size of the street. The person who swings around lampposts and puts out candles in the dark of night.

_He knows how he looks_.

Across the street, movement catches his attention. A portly man in a black suit and a pair of white gloves stands across the way, dutifully focused on one of the aforementioned lampposts, a small stack of bulletins in his hands.

A spark of hope lights up Peter's core.

Bulletins mean work, and this man looks like someone of high position- his clothes remind Peter of the wealthy people back home. This is his _chance _to fix the mess he's gotten himself into, to _fix _his life after the deaths of his guardians.

He has to take it.

Peter waits until the man finishes hanging up the bulletin and leaves before dashing across the street to the lamppost and ripping the paper off of its spot. He reads it there, standing on the curb with his breath fogging up his vision, eyes wide and watery from the cold.

_ ** Boot Boy Wanted ** _

_-Must be willing to work whenever needed, all hours of the week including Sunday and nights_

_-Preferred young, small_

_-Must follow orders at all time and do as told without argument_

_-Must stay out of sight of the mistress, master, and all higher occupants of the house, including senior and upper members unless presence is requested_

_-Housing provided_

_-Wages start at 10 cents_

_-Promotions available_

_-Meals provided_

_Report to Stark Mansion (44 Ochre Pointe Avenue, Newport, Rhode Island) for an interview tomorrow (the seventh of October) at half-past-nine o'clock in the morning and ask to speak with Harold Hogan. Use the servants' entrance at the side of the mansion._

Peter reads the notice a second time, then a third, mentally calculating how far away Ochre Pointe Avenue is. It has to be far away because no person who owns a _mansion _would want to be anywhere near the center of the city, so that poses an issue- but if he _wakes up early enough_ he can make it with time to spare.

He _has _to make it.

_He's going to make it._


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the severe lack of Tony in this chapter, but I really wanted to get in a bit of a relationship with Pepper. I think she'd be great with a neglected kid, especially with her own kids and maternal instincts and all that. I promise there will be Tony interactions in the next chapter.
> 
> An important detail: the first three chapters of this story are more of a prologue. The fourth forward will be the main plot; these are just setup for later works.
> 
> Remember to comment if you enjoyed and give me ideas for what else to add to this story! I need material!!!
> 
> <3

It's a cold morning when Peter shakes himself out of a dreamless (thank God it was dreamless) sleep, blinking wearily in the darkness. The only light is that of the occasional window and a long line of glowing lampposts that marches off in both directions, leading into the now-quiet village square and the direction of Ochre Pointe Avenue.

He dresses himself in the dark. Cleans his face with day-old snow, fallen from the eaves of a nearby townhouse. It's freezing, biting at his nose and eyes and making his lips tingle, but he does it anyway.

This is the price of living.

This is the price of survival.

If he's going to get this job, he's going to have to work to make himself look like someone much better than the person he really is.

Peter's never been inside a mansion; the closest he's ever been to one is walking by with May and Ben the first time they'd been evicted, so he doesn't remember them fondly. He's only ever seen the inside in black-and-white photographs on the back of a newspaper, so his knowledge is impressively limited.

But he's seen enough to infer that a certain level of cleanliness is required, and that said level is a high one. He intends to meet it.

The walk is a long one, just as he had expected; leaving at the break of dawn doesn't get him there any earlier than a quarter past nine and by the time he finally gets there, he's panting and out of breath from exerting himself. The difference between this side of town and the downtown area is striking- clean-swept sidewalks, fancy barriers between the houses and the street, automobiles parked on the curbs- and Peter can't help but feel incredibly out of place. This is not somewhere people like him belong.

This is somewhere he will _never _belong.

The houses lining the avenue are some of the biggest he's ever seen. The smallest of the lot is a sprawling three-story estate with a fountain in the front garden and roses crawling up the windowpanes, the largest, a towering six-story mansion with marble walls, columns on the facade, and what looks like a field-sized garden at its back.

Peter pulls the bulletin out of the pocket of his coat and unfolds it, checking house numbers in correlation to the words on the page. Unsurprisingly, it's the six-story mansion with a brass _**44 **_on the lock of its ornate iron gates.

Because he's just _that _lucky.

He stops in front of the gates, staring up at the spires of the biggest house he's ever seen, and feels his heart sink. He doesn't even know how to _get in_, let alone get the job. The gates are closed and padlocked shut with a lock the size of his head. There's nobody in sight to let him in.

It feels like a test

"Hello?" Peter looks around nervously, suddenly very aware of how quiet everything is. Has he just woken someone up? Is some crazy rich lady about to come bustling out the front door to yell at him and tell him to get lost?

He waits for a minute or two, eyes fixed on the front door.

Nobody comes.

"Hello?" He calls again, fidgeting nervously with the paper in his fingers. "Is anybody there?"

Still nothing.

Peter knows he's too small to reach the padlock and try to pick it (and besides, that wouldn't be a good impression at all) but he still tries, going up on his tiptoes and grimacing as he stretches his cold muscles. His fingers brush a plaque in the center of the gate- a single word, _Stark_, covers its surface- but that's as far as he can go.

After several minutes of struggling, he falls back with a huff of frustration and turns away.

He can find another job- maybe he could deliver papers or shovel coal or something. The worst-case scenario is that he dies in a back alley and somebody dumps whatever's left of him into a river or something.

That's a pretty bad worst-case scenario, now that he thinks of it.

Peter's about to turn away and head back to the city for another day of panhandling when a frantic shout catches his attention. He stiffens and turns to face the mansion, eyes wide and scared like a deer in the middle of a road, ready to be chewed out or arrested or _something_.

A man opens the front door and rushes down the steps, stumbling on the last and nearly falling onto his face. As he gets closer and Peter can make out his facial features, he sees that it's the man who had been hanging up the bulletins the day before. He's wearing the same suit and looks like he's barely awake, even though he's probably been up since the crack of dawn.

Peter shrinks into himself as the man gets closer and closer, nervously gripping at the paper. A new hoard of butterflies rises in his stomach and he has to force the bile in his stomach to stay down.

This is one of the scariest things he's ever done. A close second to the three funerals he's had to attend, really.

"Wait there!" The man shouts, composing himself carefully before disappearing into a small guardhouse to the right of the gate. Peter does as he's told, stiff and frozen, lips the color of the ocean, fingers trembling. 

Seconds later, he reappears from the guardhouse, gripping a ring of keys in one hand and an identical copy of Peter's bulletin in the other. Unlike Peter, he can reach the padlock and unlocks it without much trouble, sliding the gates open with a horrific _screech _and wincing. Peter grimaces and takes a wary step back, eyes fixed on the man's shiny black shoes.

"You're here for the boot boy position?" He asks, authority clear in his voice.

"Y-yessir." Peter's voice cracks in the cold air. He coughs once, wincing as his throat tears at itself, and shuffles his feet together.

The man sniffs, turning his nose up, and twitches. "My name is Harold Hogan," he says. "You will address me as Mister Hogan only."

"Yessir."

Hogan gives him another once-over, eyes brushing up and down his form with clear disapproval. Peter self-consciously tugs at his coat and tries to cover a rip in the sleeve. His gloves, a scraggly pair without fingertips, momentarily snag on a button.

"Well." Hogan turns on his heel and walks back toward the mansion, white flakes of snow glowing against the fabric of his suit-jacket. Peter watches him go, biting his lip. Is that it? He's already been dismissed? It must be because of his appearance, or maybe his cough. They probably don't want someone with a cough around such a nice place, and he would probably track mud onto the carpets or something.

"Follow me, then. Why are you waiting?"

He looks up, surprised, to see Hogan waiting in the center of the drive with an expectant look on his face. Arms crossed over his chest, the older man tapped a foot against the loose pebbles that made up the Starks' roundabout.

"We don't have all day," he snapped, raising a sharp eyebrow.

Peter nearly tripped over his own feet in an attempt to move. His toes were completely numb, as were his fingers, and he could barely walk normally. The effort it took to keep up was almost more than his body could take, but he was able to force himself to jog after Hogan without falling.

"S-sorry, sir," he stammered, slowing to a trot when he finally caught up. "I d-didn't know-"

"It's fine." Hogan took a sharp turn toward the side of the mansion, leaving Peter to scramble to keep up. "Name?"

"Peter P-Parker, sir."

"Age?"

He actually had to think for a minute; it had been a whirlwind of a year, and with the loss of May shortly before his birthday, he had forgotten how old he was.

"Sixteen, sir."

Hogan stopped in his tracks and turned to face Peter, eyebrows climbing higher and higher on his forehead with every word. He scrutinized Peter's face, then his torso, then his legs, suspiciously biting his lip. A pair of fingers reached out to take a strand of Peter's hair and twirl them carefully, pulling it away from his face.

Peter tried to stay as still as he could, but he couldn't hide the small flinch that came when one of Hogan's fingers brushed his temple, prodding a small scar above his eyebrow.

The only thing he had to remember Ben by.

"You're sixteen," he said slowly, releasing Peter's hair.

"Y-yessir."

Hogan poked the scar again before turning.

"You don't look it. Follow me."

There was clearly no room for argument- authority _radiated _off of his figure- so Peter did as he was told, trailing behind like a lost puppy with his head down. They took a narrow path to the right wall of the house, then went down a steep set of icy stairs. Peter placed each foot on the next step as carefully as he could to avoid falling, his ragged shoes generating no traction with their slippery surface. Hogan clearly wasn't having the same problem- he took them two at a time with an extra bounce in his step.

It was probably the shoes, but still.

The door at the base of the stairs was opened by another key on the iron ring. Hogan opened it and held it there with his foot, gesturing for Peter to go through first. He did so without argument, carefully watching the man over his shoulder with nervous jitters in his heart. 

If Hogan noticed he was being watched, he didn't let on. He simply led the way through a short hallway after locking the door, not bothering to look back to see if Peter was still there.

"You live in the city?"

Peter looked up, surprised, and nodded. "Yessir."

"You're from the States, then?"

They turned into another hallway and were welcomed by a blast of warm air from a small fireplace. Peter could feel his body rejoice and start to thaw, and he sighed happily.

"No, sir," he murmured, watching the fire fixedly. "Ireland."

Hogan turned, surprised. "You don't have an accent, Parker."

"I was born here," Peter said, rubbing the paper between his tingling fingers. "My mother and father emigrated to Ireland when I was young."

"And they recently decided to come back?" 

"No, sir, I did."

If possible, the surprise and confusion strengthened. "You're not here with your parents?"

Peter shook his head.

"No, sir."

"Other relatives?"

"No, sir," he whispered, wincing as the hollowness in his stomach made itself known with a loud growl. "I'm alone."

Hogan had the decency to stop there and leave the matter alone, a fact for which Peter was grateful. He stopped talking and continued walking, expression neutral.

They passed a room full of bustling chatter and stopped. Peter, slowly warming, peered around the corner of the door to see a quartet of young women washing clothes in a large basin, smiling and happily speaking with each other.

"The housemaids," Hogan said, waving to the girls good-naturedly. "Liz Toomes, Betty Brant, Cindy Moon, and Gwendolyn Stacy."

Peter shrunk back when four pairs of eyes turned to him, waved shyly, and quietly coughed.

"Girls, this is Peter. He's a candidate for the next boot boy."

The girls gave their hello's and smiled, but Peter found himself unable to respond. There was a moment of silence before Hogan waved them back to their work and the laughter resumed, gesturing for Peter to follow him away.

"That quiet thing you've got going there'll do you well here," he said conversationally, turning onto another staircase. "We don't always want to be heard."

Peter nodded.

"And you're small enough to fit into tight spaces and take care of the more dangerous jobs."

Another nod.

"You're willing to work long hours and do hard work?" Hogan asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Yessir."

"Housing, food, and clothing would all be provided. You wouldn't have a need to walk."

That was an important point. Peter perked up at the mention of food and housing, a small smile tugging at his lips. He would finally be safe again, warm again, fed again.

It would be the first time in several weeks, and he was _ready _for it.

"Yessir," he said again, voice slightly louder than it had been before. "I can work hard, sir."

Hogan's eyes seemed to soften for a moment before he turned away. "I believe you, Parker. Walk with me for a little while, okay?"

...

Pepper gets the note when Michelle comes to take Morgan upstairs for her nap: a message from Happy about the new boot boy on a slip of paper. It takes her a minute to read his handwriting- dark blue pen in a scrawly version of cursive is particularly difficult for her to make out, but when she finally does, a thrill shoots through her core.

_Wait on the upstairs balcony for a few minutes. I'll walk him through. _

_-H_

Moving quickly with another child in her stomach isn't easy- the added weight makes things harder than they logically should be, and she doesn't like it- but Pepper does her best, pulling a pair of flat slippers on so she can walk around easier and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. She doesn't know why she's excited- she never met Harley Keener, and whoever this child is probably won't ever be in the forefront of her mind- but something about meeting him gives her a rush of adrenaline.

She likes kids a lot more than she thought she would.

Pepper slips out of her room, closes the door carefully, and passes one of the housemaids with a small smile on her way to the balcony. It looks out over the ballroom- a marble-tiled chamber with a mural on the ceiling and a grand piano in the corner- and provides a view of the ocean beyond the rows of windows on the opposite wall.

But she's not looking at the ocean or the piano. She's listening for footsteps.

Happy's are the first to come, loud and as present as ever, tapping against the tiles. For a moment, Pepper thinks he might have ditched the new boot boy somewhere along the way- she can't hear anybody else. But then she hears them: quiet padding noises, muffled against the hard floor as if the person making them is trying to be as invisible as possible.

Then again, they _are _a child, so maybe they're just lighter?

Happy comes into view first, walking at a fast clip. Pepper has to crane her neck to see him. A smaller form follows at a slower pace, shaking and looking around skittishly. She narrows her eyes- he doesn't look like a teenager, really. All she can see is a head of curly hair, a ripped coat, and pale fingers.

Skeletal, white-blue fingers.

She remembers when her own fingers looked like that.

All precaution about not meeting the new hall boy is thrown out the window. Pepper barely thinks before rushing down the hall and a flight of stairs, her green dress billowing around her legs.

Happy and the boy turn to face her when she makes her presence known. The first thing she sees is a pair of doe-brown eyes, wide and afraid, watching her every move like a frightened animal.

The second is the bluest pair of lips she's ever seen.

"This is the new boot boy?" Pepper asks, trying to keep her tone as unaffected as possible.

"Yes, m'lady," Happy says, stepping out of the way so she can see him better. "Peter Parker. This is the mistress of the house, Lady Virginia Stark."

Peter Parker- he looks like a Peter.

"Mistress Stark," Peter says, his voice brittle and soft as if he's been told to be quiet one too many times. He dips his head in respect before straightening rapidly and coughing.

It's a violent, wet sound, tearing itself from his throat with a painful retch. Pepper can't help but to flinch and take a step back; this child is _clearly _ill, and if the way his clothing hangs off of him is any suggestion, weak.

"I-I'm sorry," he whispers, clearing his throat and staring at the ground. His cheeks are pale to the point of grayness.

"It's quite all right," Pepper says gently, although her eyes don't match her voice. She glares at Happy like an avenging mother, one hand on her baby bump, and jerks her head to the side. "Mister Hogan, can I speak with you for a moment?"

Peter looks up, wide-eyed, and opens his mouth to speak.

"It's no fault of your own, Peter." She smiles and takes a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress, handing it over to the boy before shooting another glare in Happy's direction. Pepper points a manicured hand toward a pair of soft seats beneath the stairs, directly adjacent to a fountain. "How about you go sit down for a moment while I ask him a few questions, alright?"

He clearly wants to argue- the hesitant look on his face is obvious- but, after a moment of nervously glancing back and forth between Pepper and the velvet chairs, Peter does as he's told and leaves them. The minute he's out of sight, she pulls Happy closer and turns away from the boy, fiercely gripping his elbow.

"The child is _sick_," she hisses, "and you have him walking around? What in the _world _is wrong with you?"

Happy cringes and carefully removes himself from her grip. "Missus Stark, I'm just showing him the mansion so he can start with work in the morning. You said you wanted to see him-"

"I could've _waited_! He doesn't need to start _work, _he needs a _doctor!_"

She jabs a finger over her shoulder in Peter's direction.

"What's wrong with him?!"

He shrugs nervously. "He was waiting outside the gate for me fifteen minutes before our set meeting time," he says, helpless before Pepper's rage. "It looked like he'd walked."

"In this weather?"

"Yes, ma'am. I had no idea what to do with him, and there were no other candidates available, so I decided to go ahead and see if he was worth the time." A pause. "He was coughing an awful lot, though."

"Damn right, he was!" Pepper says, angrily twisting her hair. "Honestly, you expect him to work like that? He must be _freezing_."

She turns to check on Peter, biting her lip. To her dismay, he hasn't sat on one of the chairs- instead, he's sitting cross-legged on the floor, a fair distance away from both the chairs and the fountain, with his arms wrapped around his torso and his eyes closed. He looks like he's trying not to touch anything.

In fact, that's probably exactly what he's trying to do.

Pepper gnaws her bottom lip, still watching Peter out of the corner of her eye, and jabs Happy in the chest.

"You're going to take him upstairs and set him up in the guest room for the rest of the day so he can get the attention he needs," she snaps. "After he's settled, you can go back to your duties. I'll take it from there."

Happy stares at her, aghast. "The guest room?" He asks. "You want me to put a gutter child in _the guest room?!_"

Silence.

Over by the fountain, Peter flinches as if the words physically struck him, eyes squeezed shut like he's ready for a blow. He doesn't cry, but a chest-wracking cough shakes his entire body and sends him scuttling back from the chairs so that he's pressed up against the lip of the fountain. Pepper watches sadly as he grimaces and tries to scrub at the stone, wiping away invisible particles of whatever he thinks is wrong with him.

"You'll never say anything like that again," she says, dangerously calm. "And you'd do well to remember that I was once a _gutter child_, and you work for _me_. I'll take care of him myself."

A pause.

"You are excused."

Happy leaves with his head down, clearly ashamed, and makes his way back down to the servants' quarters, leaving Pepper alone with Peter. She grits her teeth not ready to undo the emotional damage this poor child has clearly undergone, and takes a deep breath.

Peter is still scrubbing at the tiles with the sleeve of his coat, eyebrows furrowed into a grimace, when she walks over and places a hand on his shoulder. He flinches, a full-body twitch that could make anybody sympathetic, and whirls around on his knees to face her with a pair of watery, doe-brown eyes. His nose is the color of a tomato, but his cheeks are almost white, showing off the plethora of sun-drenched freckles there. 

"Come along," she says gently, bending down with great effort to try and pull him to his feet, "we'll get you well."

He clearly doesn't want to- the doubtful look on his face is enough to make that more than obvious- but recognizes the order when it's given. Peter drags himself to his feet, using the side of the fountain as a crutch, and watches Pepper as if she's an angel.

She smiles, brushes her hair out of her face, and tilts her head in the direction of the staircase. "Come along," she repeats.

Peter clears his throat, coughs into his elbow, and shakes his head. "I don't think I'm allowed up there, Mistress. I should go back."

That soft voice is going to be the death of Pepper, and she knows it. It's so incredibly _sad_\- melancholy, even. She finds herself softening as if he's her own child and setting her hand on his elbow.

"It's okay, Peter. You're allowed for now."

The doubtful expression doesn't leave Peter's face, but he follows her nonetheless, carefully staying a few paces behind her and stepping only on the thin strip of marble without carpet. Pepper doesn't look back; it'll make her uncomfortable, she knows, and that's the last thing she wants. But he follows obediently, and that's what's important.

_Maybe a little bit too obediently._


	3. The Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My people.  
My amazing, beautiful, supportive people.  
I am so sorry. I know it's been about three months??? And that's awful of me but I'm back and hope to be updating much more regularly. :) Thank you for your support!
> 
> My tumblr: [Silver-Bubbles,](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)

Peter doesn't like the way his shoes squeak against the nice marble floors. Doesn't like the light scuff marks left behind by his heels. Doesn't like how clearly out of place he is.

Among polished banisters, waxed floors, elaborate tapestries, and warm lights, Peter Parker is scum. He knows it, Hogan knows it, _everyone knows it_.

And he caught Hogan's comment on his predicament. _Gutter child_. He is _not _a gutter child, he's an _alley _child, and there's a difference even if nobody else knows it. He hasn't always been like this.

Ireland had been beautiful before everybody he cared about started dying.

Miss Stark- how is he supposed to address her? Nobody ever specified anything about that, but he's pretty sure Mistress was a good thing to say to her face. Does it matter if he says it differently in his head? What if he slips up out loud and accidentally offends her? Could that happen? Could he lose his job?

Another cough tears its way from his throat, wet and loud. In the silent marble chamber, the sound echoes, rebounding off of walls and bouncing back toward them. Peter winces, clutching his throat with one hand, and glances up to see if Miss Stark noticed.

She's looking at him with concern again, maybe even pity. There's something in her blue eyes that looks almost like understanding.

But she's a wealthy woman in a Rhode Island mansion, and Peter is a penniless immigrant. She has influence, security, a family.

Peter has none of that.

Miss Stark doesn't understand what's happening to him; there's no possible way. Nobody in her home knows him.

And he's okay with that.

Peter follows her up the stairs, staying back several paces and keeping his eyes down. His hands are clutched behind his back; he's ill and dirty and there's no reason for him to get mud or bacteria or whatever else he's picked up off of the streets on their nice railing. The last thing he wants to do is make more work for someone else.

"Do you know where you might've picked it up?" Miss Stark asks as she steps off of the staircase and turns to wait for him. The heels of her shoes make small indentations in the carpet, leaving little marks behind as she moves to make room for him on the second story. "The cold, I mean."

"No, Mistress," Peter says. He stands on a small strip of uncarpeted floor, staring down at his feet. "I don't."

"Are you sure?"

Her tone is persistent. He can tell that he's not going anywhere until she's gotten a sufficient answer.

"Yes, Mistress."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Where have you been staying?"

"The city, Mistress-"

Miss Stark cuts him off, holding up a slender hand. "You don't need to call me mistress, Peter. Just Pepper works for me."

Shock shoots through Peter's stomach. She knows who she is, doesn't she? And who he is? Their ranking is so distant that Peter isn't even on the same page as she is, let alone in the area to call her by her first name.

"That would be improper," he says simply, gritting his teeth at how indolent his voice sounds. As an afterthought, he adds, "Miss."

"It's not improper if I say it isn't," Pepper- Miss Stark- says.

"It wouldn't be respectful."

Peter won't budge, he _won't. _If he is to work for these people, he can't mess it up on the first day. Imagine if someone else- Hogan or Miss Stark's husband, which is the worst scenario _imaginable_\- was to hear him calling her Pepper? His job would be gone immediately, and he doubts that there's anything Miss Stark could do about it.

"Well." Deep inhale through the nose. "Miss Stark. Not mistress, Peter."

He wants to argue, but arguing is more disrespectful than calling her by her first name. If she wants to be called _Miss Stark _instead of _mistress_, who is he to judge?

"Yes, Miss Stark," Peter says obediently, shuffling his feet on the polished floors.

A gentle smile crosses her features. She nods, tilts her head in the direction of a pair of closed mahogany doors, and reaches her hand out in his direction. When he doesn't react, the smile disappears.

She wants him to take it.

_But he's ill, and she's clean, and he can't._

"Peter," Miss Stark chides, spreading her fingers expectantly. "Come along."

That's an order, clear as day, so Peter reaches his grubby, thin-fingered hand out and takes hers, holding it lightly in an attempt to avoid dirtying it up. She ignores any of his apprehensiveness and pulls him along, slowly at first, then picking up her pace as she realizes that he's following her.

The upstairs level of Stark Mansion seems to be larger than the lower, but that might just be because Peter's sense of depth perception is completely out of whack. Every surface seems to be covered with something value- tapestries, ornate vases, detailed portraits of the home's owners, tables, carpets, or something of the sort- and the use of color is so vibrant that it almost hurts Peter's eyes. He has to blink several times when they pass an ornamental sculpture of a peacock that looks just as realistic as the real thing (he's only ever seen them in borrowed picture books, of course). 

They walk to the doors she'd pointed out, Peter a stride behind her and nearly hidden by her skirts, peering around her side. This doesn't look like a bedroom- no, the entry is much too official for that.

A chill of foreboding runs down his spine, prompting another cough, this one more painful than the last. He lets go of Miss Stark's hand like it's a hot iron and jumps back, face hot.

The woman cranes her neck to look at him without turning, one ginger eyebrow raised sharply. Her lips are pressed into a thin line- disapproving. Did he do something wrong?

"I- sorry, Miss," Peter stutters, holding up his fist to cough again. "I don't want to get you ill, is all."

"Touching me isn't going to make me ill. Bacteria isn't going to soak through my skin. That's not how it works."

"I-"

Peter blushes, tucking his fingers into the sleeves of his shirt and looking down to hide the redness in his cheeks. He knows that Miss Stark doesn't mean to be demeaning, and to any educated person, nothing she says could possibly come across as an insult. But to Peter, who hasn't received a formal education since he was ten and had to get a job to help support his family, and has _no way _of knowing about that sort of thing (he doesn't really know the proper definition of bacteria), it's a bit insulting.

_She's only trying to help you, and she's one of your betters. Never disrespect your betters._

"Oh," he finishes dumbly, nodding his head. His face is hot with embarrassment.

Miss Stark doesn't speak. Peter can't see much of her- his eyes are fixed firmly on the hem of her skirt- and he's not going to look up because his face is the same shade as the carpet. Still, he can feel the confusion radiating off of her.

"You said you were fifteen?"

"Sixteen, Miss."

Silence falls, but it doesn't matter. Peter knows what she's thinking: _sixteen and hasn't learned anything about the way bacteria spreads?_

What if she decides she wants someone more educated for the position? Does that mean he just... goes back to the streets? Is he going to have to battle through the crowd at the square to get a hold of something to eat?

This job could be _so much_ for him. A secure food source, a place to sleep, safety.

Safety would be _wonderful, _considering how he hasn't had it in so long.

"I want to introduce you to my husband, Peter," Miss Stark says. "Anthony. He's the head of the house and, although he didn't ask to meet whoever we chose, I think he'd like to meet you."

Peter nods wordlessly, trying to hide the terror in his eyes. He can feel the stiffness in his posture and the aching in his bones. He doesn't want to meet the master of the house when he's in such a bad way. His hair is a mess and his face is dirty and he looks like he's just walked in from a fight, which isn't too far off.

What in the _world _is he going to think of him?

Miss Stark doesn't wait for vocal consent. She just knocks on the door, once, twice, three times. Without an answer (even though she barely hesitates for more than a second) she opens the door and beckons Peter inside.

Other than the main room downstairs, the office is one of the most gaudily decorated places in the mansion. When Peter had thought that the outside hallways were lavish, he clearly hadn't known the _definition _of lavish.

It's extravagant, unnecessary, and appropriate for a person of Anthony Stark's caliber. The famous works of art in the halls change to full-color portraits and photographs- of the family, of people Peter supposes are famous and doesn't know the name of, of an older man with an odd mustache and silver hair, and of Miss Stark and someone who must be Anthony.

Of course, Peter doesn't have to look at the picture of the couple for long, because the sound of a clearing throat jerks his attention to the man behind the desk.

Why look at a copy when you could look at the real thing?

The man looks like an Anthony, really, with tan skin and hair of a deep chestnut color. His facial hair is cut into strange shapes on his chin, angular and sharp. Peter's search finds a pair of clear glasses, and behind them, brown eyes with the same level of confusion that he's feeling. 

He doesn't look much like the sort of man Miss Stark would be interested in, if Peter's being honest, but who is he to judge.

The confusion in Anthony's- _Mister Stark's, _pull yourself together- eyes sharpens to understanding as he looks Peter up and down, from the ragged holes in his shoes to the tangled mass of curls on top of his head. He can obviously tell exactly what he's there for. As Mister Stark looks back and forth between Miss Potts and Peter, the understanding sharpens further yet.

"Virginia," he says, in a voice as crisp and clear as his glasses, "a bit of warning would've been nice."

Mister Stark shuffles the stack of papers on his desk into a neat pile and flips them over before Peter can see them.

"Nice to see you too, darling," Pepper snaps. She takes a few steps away from Peter's spot at the door, leaving him completely exposed. His heart sinks as another inspection, this one cursory, leads to a quiet sniff.

_Not good_.

Mister Stark points the end of his pen at Peter and flicks it ever so slightly. "Who's this?"

"Happy's chosen our new boot boy." She clicks her tongue, shooting her husband an angry glare before turning back to Peter. Her eyes are softer as she meets his gaze. "Tony, this is Peter Parker."

Peter stifles another cough.

Mister Stark notices, and the disdain on his face burns.

"He's ill."

Miss Potts rolls her eyes, planting a hand on her hip and tilting her head like the girls in Peter's old neighborhood had done when they were angry. "I believe that's obvious. I'm going to set him up in one of the guest rooms so he can get the care he needs and some proper rest before tomorrow."

As if he isn't already red enough, Peter's face flushes again. He doesn't like the idea of messing around with the nice linens of such a wealthy family- they probably cost more than he's worth, and somebody will have to clean them afterward. He hasn't had a bath in what seems like an eternity. The closest thing to one is the way he had to wash his face and hands with snow, but for fear of hypothermia, he hasn't been able to clean himself properly.

Mister Stark doesn't seem to like the idea any more than he does. But, unlike many of the men Peter has met in America, he seems to hold Miss Stark in a high enough regard to not argue with her. In that respect, he's faintly reminiscent of Uncle Ben- a man who would sooner have died than disrespect Aunt May.

Peter doesn't know enough about his parents' relationship to truly know, but he knows that his father and uncle were fairly similar people. Besides, he doesn't want to have come from an awful person.

He'd never want that.

"It's n-nice to meet you," he stutters, coughing slightly in an attempt to clear the thickness in his throat. "Mister- _Master _Stark. Sir."

Brown eyes warming, Mister Stark smothers what looks like a snicker before standing from his spot behind the desk. He's clearly a strong man, formidable, but still barely two or three inches taller than Peter himself. Shorter than his wife.

He takes two steps back, almost to the wall, and blinks nervously as the man moves closer and closer, striding quickly across the room. It takes all of his resolve not to shrink back or cover his head. He's been hit by more than one angry shopkeeper after sleeping in a back alley he shouldn't have been in, and in that moment, Mister Stark looks a bit too much like one of them.

"_Tony_," Miss Stark warns, setting her jaw in a way that says that she won't be pushed aside. 

He stops a few feet in front of Peter's spot at the door, raises his palms, and smirks at his wife. "I've stopped."

She doesn't say anything but nods her approval, and he seems to take it as a sign that he can continue. Turning back to Peter, he says, "Nice to meet you too, kid. Good to have you working around the house. Virginia'll have you set up in the room adjacent to this one for the night." He jerks his head in the direction of another door, this one painted in white and smaller than the office door. "I'll check up on you to make sure you're not dead."

Despite the offhand way Mister Stark speaks, Peter can tell that he means _something_, even if he doesn't know what that _something _is. The only thing he _does _know is that everything the Starks are giving him? All of this hospitality and kindness and generosity, despite the fact that he's going to be working as the lowest of their servants? He's not worth it, and it won't last.

...

As promised, even though Peter knows he isn't deserving of such a nice place (even for a night), Miss Stark takes him through the office and into another room. This one is equally extravagant, decked out in gilded wallpaper and fancy pottery. The bed is a four-poster with red sheets and a thick comforter and _five _pillows.

_Five pillows._

Peter had barely had _one_ back home.

She nudges him, and just then does he realize that he's stopped short in the middle of the room. His eyes feel like quarters.

"Sit."

Peter sits, barely perched on the edge of the duvet, nervously fiddling with his jagged fingernails. Miss Stark sits beside him.

"You said you'd been staying in the city." _Not a question, don't answer._ "Where?"

"The inner area," he says vaguely. "Near the squares, Miss."

"I need you to be specific, Peter. _Where _in the city? Which boarding house?"

She's deluded, if she thinks that's where immigrants are staying. Boarding houses are packed and too expensive. The lucky ones are at the shipyards, waiting to be able to catch a ride to an area with more opportunity. The unlucky are like Peter and have probably already succumbed to the cold.

He clears his throat again, coughs into his elbow, and squeezes his eyes shut. "I've not been staying at a boarding house."

Miss Potts purses her lips. "Tell me where you've been."

"_Ah,_" Peter says, his hoarse voice nearly a whisper. "_Alleys_."

He's ashamed to admit it, really. Ashamed to say that he's been sleeping with cardboard boxes and stray dogs. Ashamed to say that he's eaten food scraps from garbage bins.

But Miss Stark only nods grimly, like that's what she'd expected, and stands. 

"Take your shoes off, Peter," she orders. "And lie down."

"M-Miss?"

His shoes are some of his few possessions. Peter looks down at them, sees the worn leather and holes and mud caked on the soles. They've been from Ireland to America, across the Atlantic Ocean. Uncle Ben had bought them for him with two months worth of savings.

He's not ready to throw them away like that.

"Your shoes," Miss Stark says again, raising her brow. "Off."

Peter scuffs his toes together, reluctant, but he knows he can't deny her. He reaches down and undoes the laces, sliding them off of his feet to leave behind a pair of ragged socks. 

"Are you- are you going to throw them away?" He asks, biting his lip as he hands them over. They look so out of place in her clean hands.

"I was planning on it." Miss Stark passes them back and forth between her hands, eyeing them carefully. "But something in your voice makes it sound like you're not quite satisfied with that."

Peter shakes his head. "I'd like to keep them, Miss. Not to wear, just... for sentimental purposes. If that's alright?"

Again, her gaze softens. "Of course, Peter. You can keep them if you'd like."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you. So much."

She seems to understand that he isn't just thanking her for his shoes and smiles gently before gesturing for him to lie down. Even though it nearly _pains _him to do as she says, he does, lying back against the soft sheets and allowing Miss Stark to pull the covers over him.

Her red hair flickers against the light of a nearby oil lamp. An ancient memory resurfaces: another woman with fiery hair tucking him into bed, her green eyes watching him with the love of a mother.

Peter doesn't remember her very well, but Mary Fitzpatrick is his mother, even if she's dead.

"Thank you, Miss," he murmurs, already feeling the way his eyelids droop. He hadn't realized how tired he was until his head had hit the soft pillows and he'd been covered with warmth and comfort and something that feels like home, even though his real home wasn't _remotely _like this.

Peter feels _safe_.

He can sense Miss Stark lowering the lights as he drifts off, but before she leaves, she leans over the bed and presses a trio of fingers to Peter's forehead. 

And, for the first time in such a long time, Peter drifts off to sleep with a smile on his face.


	4. The Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little while to get out! I had a big chem test and I did not like that. 0/10, would not recommend, not Gucci at all.
> 
> I'm going to try to update on Thursdays from now on, but please be patient with me.
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr! You've got no idea how happy it makes me to see ask notifications!
> 
> My tumblr: [silver-bubbles](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)

"I still don't understand why you felt the need to bring the kid through my office," Tony murmurs, scribbling absentmindedly on a scrap of wax paper. Pepper sits across from him, knees crossed in front of her chest.

She's never looked less impressed with him, and he's done some stupid things. His wife is practically _made _of an unending fountain of patience, and it looks like she's running out.

Pepper rolls her eyes. "Because the only way to the guest room is through your office."

"But why did he have to be in my guest room? That's my question."

"I _know _what your question is," she hisses, shooting a furtive glance toward the closed door of the room where Peter sleeps. "I know _exactly _what you meant, and I won't have it. He needed help and I gave it to him, and it isn't like we've had any other people to occupy that place anyway. It was going to waste. There was dust on the sheets."

Tony raises his hands again, lips pressed into a thin line in an expression disconcertingly similar to that of Pepper's resting face. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I think we both know how you meant it."

The couple sits in silence for a few moments, staring each other down in a show of strength that, before meeting Pepper, Tony had never expected to see in a woman (how wonderfully wrong he had been).

"I said the same thing to Happy as I'll say to you," Pepper murmurs, breaking the tension with soft words. "I was once like him. You must remember that."

And _God_, doesn't he? He'll always remember how he'd met her, a penniless child out on the New York streets (this had been before the Stark family had moved to Rhode Island), living off of scraps and stolen coins. She'd been dressed in rags then, a dirty teenager with thin cheekbones that he now realizes were nearly identical to how Peter's are now.

Tony had met her on a day not unlike that one, when he'd been out with Jarvis on the market to shop for food for the next week. Market days had been his only escape from the sharp eye of his father and the henlike personality of his mother; however kind she was to him, he'll always remember that she had watched him like he was a child well into his young adult life.

Those days with Jarvis had really been the only days he'd been able to live as himself. 

Tony had been seventeen when he'd followed Jarvis out into the streets with a small pouch of bills in his pocket, heart joyful at the opportunity to avoid his father's high expectations. The list had been short, so he hadn't brought much, but he'd easily been able to feel the difference when, ten minutes later, several bits of paper had disappeared.

He'd almost missed her, too- Pepper, just shy of his elbow, the corner of a dollar poking out from between her knuckles, trying much too hard to avoid his eye. Tony had grabbed her from the wrist (his first mistake) and, to that day, the birdlike quality of her bones and the way he'd been able to close his fingers with almost an inch of room to spare is all too present.

_She'd been so small, and so scared._

Tony clears his throat, looks up from his paper, and places the pen in the top drawer.

"Of course I remember. I could never forget; you _know _that."

Pepper blinks, trying to hide the misty film over her eyes. A single tear slips down her cheek. He passes his handkerchief over the table and brushes a stray ringlet out of her face.

"Teenagers are at such an important junction in their lives." Her voice is choked. "Trauma at their age damages them irreparably, haunts them. I remember my time on the streets, when I was like him, and it was only for a month or two before you found me." Pepper blinks again. "You're the one who pulled me out of a very dark place. Tony_, you saved me_."

She'd been malnourished, exhausted, neglected. 

"I want to do the same for him. It could make all the difference."

It's quiet for a minute. The only sound is that of the clock on the mantle ticking away and, far softer, Peter snoring in the other room. Tony nods abruptly.

"He went to sleep quickly?"

The smile that breaks out on Pepper's face is infectious, filled with joy and relief, and she practically _launches _herself across the table in a manner that in no way benefits the little being in her belly. She covers his face in kisses, pecking him everywhere from the forehead to the chin, as he lifts her off of the table and holds her close.

"He was very tired." _Breathless_. 

Tony clears his throat and stands, Pepper still in his arms, taking in the way she shakes like a leaf. This exertion can't be good for her health, and the excitement probably isn't doing much, either.

"You're tired, too," he mutters, already kicking open the door to the office and stepping out into the hallway. "Time for you to rest."

She begins to argue, squirming like a child in his arms, but he cuts her off quickly and sets her on the bed in their shared room. "For the baby."

"You'll check on Peter for me?" 

Pepper's already burrowing under the covers, smiling like she knows he'll do what she wants. And how could he argue? It's not like opening a door and making sure the kid's not dead or dying is particularly difficult.

"Of course, Pep. Now go to sleep. I'll wake you for dinner."

Tony blows out the lamps, draws the curtains, and closes the door softly before heading back to his office and getting back to work. The boy's only been asleep for ten or so minutes; there's no need to bother him quite yet.

...

There was no sound from the guest room for about two hours, which was, honestly, quite a relief for Tony. He'd never been around a kid Peter's age, with only an infant daughter, but from what he'd seen of the boy before, he'd been an absolute wreck. He didn't know how to deal with that sort of thing; all of his experience came from Pepper, and with her, he'd just spoken softly and been his usual charming self.

Although, now that he thinks of it, she'd probably just tolerated him for kicks, seeing as he'd had no contact with other boys or girls his age and had probably been an awkward wreck the entire time.

He'll have to bring that up later.

Peter makes his presence known around five in the afternoon when an explosive cough echoes through the slightly-parted doors. His voice is wracked with pain as he coughs again, and again, and again, until there's a neverending stream of sickness coming from what had formerly been a clean room.

_Lord Almighty, grant me strength and patience._

Tony puts his books aside and stands, back creaking. The opening door gives way to a stream of golden light, cutting through the darkness of the room like a warm knife through butter.

It _also _gives way to a clear view of the writhing figure on the bed.

Peter- had Pepper said his last name? Parker?

Yeah, Parker sounds right.

Peter looks even smaller than Pepper had been, Tony notes as he lights one of the bedside lamps. He's not even a year shy of when he'd met her, but for some reason, he seems to be exponentially smaller. His face is so pale that it's a shade away from translucent, and his chin is dotted with specks of red.

_That's not good_.

"Hey, hey, kid," Tony mutters, taking Peter gingerly by the shoulders and shaking him until he opens his eyes to reveal the deepest brown he's ever seen. Against the pallor of his skin, they look almost black. Tan freckles stand out on his cheeks.

_Irish_, he thinks, despite the obvious lack of an accent. _An immigrant._

"Take a deep breath," he says, when Peter's calmed down enough for him to let go. "You have to breathe."

Peter nods, a lank strand of hair falling between his eyes as his chest expands shakily. A drop of blood drips down his chin and onto the ivory sheets, and Tony can't help the involuntary shudder that runs through him as yet another cough rips through his weak body.

He doesn't know what to do.

Morgan hasn't been around people enough to get sick like this, much to his gratitude. Tony would never want any of his children to go through something like this; he can tell from the tears welling in Peter's wide eyes that he's in an excruciating amount of pain.

"_ 'M sorry, Master Stark_," he chokes out, rubbing at the red stain on the sheets and trying to soak up the blood on his chin with his sleeve at the same time. _"I'll clean it, I-"_

Another cough, this one just as violent as the last, cuts him off.

"No, it's okay," Tony says softly, brushing a finger over the boy's chin and examining the red on his fingertips. "It's okay, Peter. We can get it out." Hesitation. "And you don't need to call me master."

Peter shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and covers his mouth with his elbow. He can't seem to speak, but his expression says enough to portray _exactly _what he means.

Tony sighs and pulls off his jacket, pushing the boy's elbow out of the way with as little force as he can before shoving the fabric under his chin to catch the blood. Peter tries to pull away, gritting his teeth with effort, before collapsing back down onto the sheets with a quiet groan, his head cushioned by what had been a _very _expensive jacket.

The bloodstain would come out, just like the one on the sheets.

Tony stays for what seems like hours, patting Peter on the shoulder as he coughs, until the fit tapers off and the only sound in the room is labored breathing interspersed with quiet whimpers. Peter's chest heaves, sweat shining on his brow, as he forces air into unwilling lungs.

If merely _breathing _hurts him this badly, Tony can't quite fathom what he's feeling.

So he does what he can- rubs Peter's shoulders as he labors on, spread-eagled on his back like a rug, thin arms splayed out at his sides. His elbows are far too thin (really, all of him is far too thin).

In this light, he doesn't look like a sixteen-year-old. The kid's probably about the weight of a preteen, and the size of one, too.

Another drop of blood drips out of the corner of his mouth and onto Tony's satin jacket, and after barely a moment's thought, he realizes that he has _no idea _what to do.

...

The physician arrives a mere thirty minutes later, at Happy's call, decked out in a long coat despite the snowdrifts with his spectacles perched high on his nose. Much like Peter, Yinsen is an immigrant (Tony doesn't know where he's from). He's worked for the Stark family for longer than he can remember, and had moved with them as well, having gained a bit of an attachment to Tony as a teenager.

He'd been quite insufferable, really, but who is he to judge?

He disappears into the guest room and closes the door behind himself, shutting Tony in his own office, and stays there for a small eternity. He can't hear anything except for coughing and quiet voices- too quiet to make out any of the words- and spends the entire time pacing in front of the mantle.

When in the world had he gotten so _attatched?_

Maybe it's something about being a father. Perhaps, had Peter joined the staff before Morgan's birth, they wouldn't be in this position now. But Tony has to admit that even though he hasn't held a real conversation with the boy, he feels oddly partial to him. Not quite fatherlike, but then again, he might be as close as it gets.

Yinsen comes out about an hour later with his briefcase in one hand and a small glass bottle of pills in the other. Tony has to crane his neck to see into the now-dark room, but he can see Peter's prone figure on the bed, wrapped in an extra layer of blankets. 

"What's wrong with him?" He demands, barring Yinsen's path to the hallway. "Can it be fixed?"

The older man simply holds a hand up and nods, gently pushing Tony aside. "Acute bronchitis, Anthony. He should be able to make a full recovery given time, rest, and time."

"So he'll be okay?"

Yinsen rolls his eyes. "What did I just say? _He'll make a full recovery_. I have antibiotics for him and all he can do is rest and regain his health."

Tony glances at the inert figure, biting his lip, and says, "What can we do to help him? Is there anything you'd recommend?"

"He needs more food and water than he's getting." He passes the briefcase back and forth between each hand before continuing. In the quiet spot between words, Tony can hear Peter wheezing, his breathing clearly strained. "Make sure he's warm and takes his medicine. Prop his back up against pillows so he can breathe properly."

Yinsen has always struck Tony as a drill sergeant sort of person. He fires words like they're bullets and manages to make statements sound like commands. He and Jarvis, despite the former's constant absences, had been the closest things he'd had to father figures for the majority of his young life. The way he speaks makes it impossible to disobey him, and even as Tony listens, he feels like he's being spoken to by a teacher.

"Nothing else we can do? What all did you notice? Is there anything we should know about-"

Another hand comes up, effectively silencing him. "I've told you all that you can do. As for what I noticed..." he trails off, shaking his head sadly. "The boy is severely malnourished and dehydrated, on top of being extremely neglected. The bronchitis has to have come from the weather and the smoke in town, which means he's been around a mass of people.

"You should also try to keep the mistress of the house away from him, or to keep him away from everyone else. He's contagious and needs peace and quiet to recuperate fully." Yinsen points a bony finger at Tony's chest. "You're in good health, Anthony, so you should be fine."

For a second, Tony feels his vision white out. _Pepper's been around the kid, she was the one to take him upstairs, and she's pregnant. _In her condition, it's clearly unsafe for her to have had any contact with him, and if it's already spread-

"She should be fine if you're vigilant," Yinsen says, pursing his lips. "Watch her carefully and see if anything's different. If she doesn't show any symptoms within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, she's out of the woods. Call me if you see anything."

Tony nods his thanks, tapping thigh with his middle finger and trying to figure out why the pull to check on Peter is so strong. He doesn't understand- again, he's only just met the kid, and he hadn't even _liked _him that much at first. Now he feels this inexplicable _need _to make sure he's okay.

It's a terrifying emotion, really.

"Thanks for coming at such short notice," Tony says, eyes flicking back and forth between the door of the guest room and the clock on the wall. "Hogan will see you out and make sure you're paid handsomely for your services."

Yinsen nods, smiling for the first time since he'd arrived, and places the small bottle on the table with a quiet _clink_.

"I expect you to call me if your young friend's condition worsens, Anthony."

And, with that, he disappears. The door swings shut behind him and bounces with a hollow _thud_ before stopping, leaving Tony alone in an office that suddenly seems extremely austere.

Well, he's not really alone.

Tony turns away from the main door and steps into the darkness of Peter's room- the _guest room_, it's not _Peter's. _Immediately, it feels like the temperature drops about five degrees, and he pushes back an involuntary shudder. If Yinsen said to keep the kid warm, and the room is cold, then there's already something wrong.

God, he's already messed up.

Moving quickly, he turns on the oil lamps and quickly lights a fire in the prepared fireplace, watching as the room slowly brightens with orange flame. He leaves the heavy curtains closed to act as a buffer against the harsh weather.

The kid is covered by so many blankets that Tony can barely make out the shape of his body. He can, however, see how violently he's shaking. He can hear the wheezing sound of his breaths, can hear how _painful _they sound.

Tony closes his eyes, musters his courage, and takes the pill bottle from the table before sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the slumbering pile of Peter with trepidation. All he can see is a head of trembling curls, a pale forehead, and a pair of closed eyes, and the kid looks so _peaceful_ (even if he doesn't sound peaceful) that he doesn't want to wake him up.

But Yinsen had said that he needed to take his medicine, so Tony was going to make sure that he did.

He reaches out and gently cards a hand through the boy's hair, curling his fingers and massaging his scalp out of instinct. Peter's eyes scrunch up as he groans, a raw, awful sound, before opening them sluggishly. The brown of his irises are clouded over with exhaustion and illness. He closes them almost immediately, squinting against the light.

"Ah, ah, ah," Tony chides, shaking his head and stroking a finger across Peter's hairline. "Gotta take this before you can go back to sleep, kiddo."

The kid shakes his head, stubbornly forcing his eyes shut, and tries to burrow back into his little cocoon. Tony generally prides himself on being a patient, gentle person, especially with children, but Peter's in danger.

Making sure he does what the doctor says is probably the most important thing, anyway.

"None of that."

He removes his hand carefully from Peter's hair and, without a second thought, places his thumb on one side of his jaw and his forefinger on the other and _squeezes, _pulling down simultaneously. Peter, in his weakened state, doesn't even have a chance- his mouth and eyes pop open almost immediately. The look of betrayal on his face is so strong that Tony's caught off guard.

He tries to close his mouth again, clenching his jaw as hard as he can, but Tony pulls his jaw down again and practically _pins _him to the mattress.

"Sorry, Peter," he murmurs, uncapping the bottle and spilling a pill into his palm. "Doctor's orders."

And, without another word, he pushes the pill past the boy's lips and releases his face.

Peter slams his mouth shut as soon as he's able and gulps, taking the pill dry and staring up at Tony with an odd expression. He doesn't look angry or accusatory- just so, so tired- and, without a word of dissent, his entire being goes limp and he collapses against the bed.

Tony sighs and, as Peter watches him with half-lidded eyes, brushes a hand over his burning forehead. "You're okay," he says softly, watching as sleep wraps its welcoming hands around the kid and pulls him down, down, down, until the only thing keeping him awake is his own stubbornness.

"You can rest now."

And he does.


End file.
